Never Be Another
by canuckglobetrotter
Summary: Jake gets shot protecting Captain Holt. Amy falls apart. I chose to go for 'well-written' rather than 'original' for my first-ever story. Please, if you do take the time to review, be gentle. I also decided to write the whole story first rather than upload separate chapters because, if I'm honest, I would probably forget. Plus it was easier than publishing separate chapters. Enjoy!


**New York City Hall**

"_Gun!_"

It wasn't obvious but it was enough: a glint of light bounced off of the barrel of the gun and was caught by Detective Jake Peralta out of the corner of his eye as he scanned the burgeoning crowd gathering outside of City Hall. He reacted purely out of instinct, without a second thought as to any potential consequences, and cleanly rugby-tackled his commanding officer, Captain Ray Holt, to the pavement.

"Peralta, what the - ?"

The captain's words were silenced by the sound of gunshots ripping through the air. The crowd's terrified screams were carried along by the wind and reverberated off the concrete walls of City Hall, magnifying the already piercing sounds.

"Get down! Everybody, _get_ _down!_"

The gunshots continued, although it was hard to know whether 30 seconds or 30 minutes had passed, whilst the petrified crowd shielded their heads and sprinted for whatever cover they could find in the open street. Jake lay perfectly still on top of Captain Holt, hardly daring to breathe, let alone move. But, when he considered it, moving wasn't even an option; his body felt like a couple of G-forces were being exerted on him, rendering him incapable of movement. He was also starting to feel a bit woozy, like too many shots followed by too many rounds on a roller coaster at Coney Island.

When Sergeant Terry Jeffords, who was breathing heavily and looked like he had just completed the New York marathon, announced the all clear, Jake knew that it was his signal to roll off of the captain, jump to his feet like the star athlete he always imagined himself to be, and await the inevitable words of gratitude that would no doubt issue from Holt's mouth. However, in reality, Jake realised that simply raising his head at this moment would be akin to an Olympic victory, never mind the idea of becoming upright under his own steam. In fact, a nap sounded really good right now. Perhaps he could just close his eyes and catch a few winks. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately thanks to finally guessing Santiago's Netflix password (he would need to change it straightaway when he got home: 'peraltasucksandsantiagorules' was simply not on) and the ensuing _Game of Thrones_ marathons.

"Peralta, come on. Get up. Up, Peralta. Peralta? Can you hear me? Jake? Jake?"

**New York Methodist Hospital**

**Brooklyn, NY**

**4 Hours Later**

Detective Amy Santiago rushed through the corridors of the hospital, cursing herself yet again for not having her badge clipped to her belt. Thankfully, she had been able to find a uniform who recognized her and allowed her to slip past the guards attempting to keep the media and public at bay.

"Surgery, third floor," was all she was told by one of the nurses she encountered at the front desk so it was up to her to try and find the other members of her squad. Amy took another left towards the sign that said 'Waiting Room', took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

Five heads swivelled in her direction as she walked across the threshold onto carpet that was clean but worn from years of loved ones anxiously pacing back and forth whilst awaiting good news. She nearly collapsed in relief when she saw Captain Holt sitting up straight with an ice pack strapped to his left shoulder. From what she could tell, his was the only injury in the room: Sarge was sporting dark sweat patches under his arms; Rosa and Charles had discarded their jackets and undone the top button of their shirts; and Gina looked shaken but otherwise fine. In fact, they all looked fine.

"Captain? Are you okay? The news report just said that there was a shooting at the ceremony at City Hall and so I assumed that since you were at the ceremony that there was a chance you were hit and I was so scared that I was going to get here and be told that you were dead or dying. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here; I was at my parents' house so my badge is at home so I had to wait until I could find a uniform who recognized me and would let me pass the barricade to –"

"Detective Santiago, you're rambling," Holt interjected. "Stop talking and take a breath before you pass out."

"Yes, sir," Amy swallowed hard and took several deep breaths in an attempt to slow her erratic heart rate. She took another glance around the room. "Um, sir? If you're all fine…then why are we in the surgical waiting room? Did one of our officers get hit? Or are we waiting for Peralta to realise that 'no' really _does_ mean 'no' and give up trying to hit on the nurses?"

"Amy, sit down," Terry instructed her quietly. Something in his tone told Amy that something was seriously wrong. The sergeant could be gruff and tough when he wanted to be (Angry Terry always made her thankful that she was standing behind a thick plate-glass window), but the fatherly side, which occasionally made an appearance, also made him exceedingly gentle when the situation called for it. It would appear that this was one of those times.

"Why? What's wrong?" Amy sank down into the nearest chair. "Sergeant, where's Jake?"

Terry looked at her for a moment, sadness and a tinge of fear emanating from his dark orbs, before answering, "Surgery."

Amy shook her head in confusion. "Surgery?" she repeated. "I, I don't understand. Why is Jake in surgery? I thought he was trying to score with a nurse."

"No," Holt replied, his voice carrying a hint of grief. "Jake was hit. Two bullets. The doctors weren't very specific but we do know that he took one to the kidney and one to the upper back. There's a chance, a small one, that the bullet in his back may have hit his heart and a lung. But we won't know how serious the damage is for another hour or so."

Any felt the blood drain from her face and her breath leave her in one swift _whoosh_. The looks of concern on the faces of her team members became hazy and black spots began to dance across her line of vision. Terry leapt to his feet and pushed her head between her legs; the blood flooded back to her face and she could once again see clearly. However, the clear vision was short lived as the dancing black spots were almost immediately replaced by burning tears. A paper cup full of cold water was thrust into her hand and she downed it in one go without even thinking about it. The water helped cool her down and clear her mind. However, the first cogent thought was "_Jake's going to die_" which immediately fell from her lips before she even realized what she was saying.

"No, he's not," Charles snapped, speaking for the first time since she had entered the waiting room. "Jake's a fighter. No way is he giving up. Not now. Not ever."

"Do they know why there was a shooter at City Hall?" Amy asked shakily, scrubbing her hands over her cheeks.

A look passed between Holt and Jeffords that did not go unnoticed by Amy.

"What?" she demanded, forgetting momentarily that she was speaking to superior officers. "What was that look for? What do you know?"

"It would appear that the shooter has an issue with Captain Holt leading the 99," Terry explained, a hint of anger evident in his voice.

Amy shook her head in confusion. "Captain Holt…? Why? I mean, what's he done?"

"Not everyone agrees that a gay black man should be leading a precinct, Santiago," the captain pointed out, his deep voice rumbling.

"You mean, Jake's in surgery right now, fighting for his life, because some racist homophobe decided to make things 'right' on behalf of those hillbilly hicks who refuse to accept society is changing?" Amy's voice rose as the anger threatened to take over her. "My partner might die because of some narrow-minded, backwards, fuc – "

"That's enough, Santiago," Jeffords cut her off before she was able to fully unleash her fury. "You need to sit down and calm down. Getting angry isn't going to help anything."

A heavy silence descended upon the group. Amy blinked as quickly as she could in an attempt to keep the tears at bay but it soon became apparent that trying to stop her tears was like the metaphoric screen door on a submarine. She allowed the tears to silently stream down her cheeks whilst fixing her gaze on a particularly interesting spot on the carpet. A tissue was wordlessly pressed into her hand; Amy glanced up to see Rosa looking at her with red-rimmed eyes. Amy attempted a bleak smile, gave up when the corners of her mouth failed to rise even a millimetre, and resorted to a quick head-bob. Rosa responded in kind and both women retreated once more into their own silent worlds.

The hands of the clock crawled by so slowly that Amy would have sworn the battery was dying and needed replacing to get the mechanism back up to speed. When ninety minutes had passed without any word from the doctor or a nurse, Charles took to pacing back and forth at the back of the waiting room. Gina stood up to go and stare, without seeing, at a map of the New York subway system hanging on the wall. Rosa and Holt both shifted uncomfortably, Holt re-adjusting the ice pack that was still strapped to his shoulder, but neither made any move to get up and move around the room. Terry dropped to the floor and began a series of push-ups, moving so quickly that Amy wondered how long he could sustain the exertion. However, she didn't get a chance to find out as, after only 24 push-ups, a woman dressed in mint green scrubs pushed open the door and entered the waiting room.

"Captain Holt?" she enquired, a soft Southern accent gentling her words.

"Yes, that's me," Holt immediately rose and offered his hand.

"My name is Dr James; I'm one of the surgeons who worked on Detective Peralta."

"How is he?" Charles asked, his voice rising with obvious fear and panic.

"He's stable at the moment. There were a few complications during the surgery; it would appear that one of the bullets grazed his lung, which caused it to collapse. We were able to re-inflate it but he is currently on a respirator until we are confident that the lung won't collapse again. The kidneys sustained damage as well so we have put him on a dialysis machine for the time being and will monitor him closely. Once it becomes clear that he can breathe on his own, and that his kidneys are fully functional, we can take him off both machines and see how he gets on under his own power."

"Thank you, Dr James. When can we see him?"

"In a few minutes. He is still unconscious, which isn't surprising giving the length of the surgery. I will come and get you when we feel he is ready. I'm afraid we are having trouble locating his next of kin. Would any of you know how to get in contact with his mother?"

Gina cleared her throat. "She is on a singles cruise in the Caribbean. I don't think she's due back until late next week. I have a cell number for her in case of emergencies. Or if Jake needed to know if he left his shoes at her place."

Dr James nodded. "We would appreciate it if you could pass it along so that we can let her know about her son's condition."

"I would like you to hold off on that call until I can speak with her," Holt requested, his tone polite but commanding. "I would prefer to tell her myself that her son has been injured in the line of duty before you tell her about the medical situation."

"Of course," Dr James agreed.

"Okay. Gina, get me that number. I'm going to try and call Mrs Peralta right now."

Gina hurried out of the room. Dr James excused herself and promised to return when they could visit Jake. The remaining police officers sank back down into their chairs and a heavy silence descended once again.

"Excuse me, Captain Holt?" Dr James had returned to the waiting room.

Over the past 45 minutes, the detectives had waited with varying degrees of patience. Rosa sat with crossed arms and a scowl on her fact that Amy knew was just a front for how frightened she was. Charles had, on multiple occasions, tried to start conversations about the chemicals and preservatives in hospital food but was quickly silenced each time by a _look_ from the captain. The sergeant had completed over a hundred sit-ups and push-ups and was starting on a series of lunges and squats. Gina had played Kwazy Kupcakes without ceasing and had managed to beat her previous high score by over 1000 points. Holt and Amy had chosen to sit in silence and stare into space; she had been able to count 3,529 dots on the ceiling tiles above her.

The unit rose as one. "Dr James. How is he?" Captain Holt voiced the question on everyone's mind.

The doctor gestured to the chairs. "Please, take a seat."

This wasn't good. An immediate answer would have meant good news. A delayed answer meant there was a chance one of them (smart money was on Boyle) would pass out.

The team obeyed without a word. Dr James cleared her throat and began. "I'm afraid it's a bit of a mixed bag. The good news is that he hasn't reacted badly to the anaesthesia and his vitals are now stable. The bad news is that we would have expected him to start making signs of coming out of the anaesthesia by now. The longer it takes him to come around, the higher the risk of post-op complications."

"Excuse me, Dr James," Sergeant Jeffords began, "but what does that mean, 'complications'? Are we talking brain damage?"

"We don't know much at this stage," the doctor admitted. "All I can really tell you is that now we watch and we wait and we pray."

"Thank you, Doctor," Holt murmured. "Are we allowed to see him?"

"You may but only one at a time. We try and minimize disruptions as much as possible in the surgical ICU." On those words, the doctor quietly slipped out of the waiting room.

The team looked at each other. "Who wants to go first?" Jeffords asked. "Santiago?"

"Uh, no," Amy said, panic creeping into her voice. "I, I need to go…tell my parents that I won't be coming back in time for dinner. They worry, you know."

"Fine. Gina?"

Gina nodded wordlessly and left the room. The silence once again entered the room only now it didn't seem quite so heavy. All Jake needed to do now was open his eyes and start talking about when he was going to get his own Medal of Valour because, after all, if Boyle could get one for taking 2 bullets in his bottom, then without question taking 2 bullets in the back whilst protecting a commanding officer warranted a Medal of Valour. And maybe a parade. Amy had never met someone who was so determined to be the centre of attention at all times; surely Jake would shake off the anaesthesia and wake up by the time she finished her phone call her with parents. And speaking of which…

"Sir? I'm just going to go call my parents."

Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and power-walked down the corridor without bothering to consider where she wanted to go or where her current trajectory would take her. All that mattered at this point was putting as much physical space between her and the rest of the team as she could. All that mattered was finding a quiet corner in which to sit and bawl her eyes out. All that mattered was that her partner was lying in a hospital bed and there was nothing she could do to help him get better.

It wasn't until she had ascertained for certain that she was away from all eyes and ears that Amy allowed herself to sink down to the ground, pull her knees up to her chest, rest her head on her knees, and give in to the emotions that had been threatening to explode out of her for the last 2 hours and 15 minutes.

After a good long cry, which included much snuffling and snorting and made her exceedingly grateful that no one was there to witness her in such a pathetic state, Amy rose to her feet, brushed the dust off from the seat of her trousers, squared her shoulders, and marched back down the corridor. She ducked into the ladies' room to freshen up and make sure that her eyes weren't so bloodshot that Gina would notice and make a comment. A splash of cold water, a few swipes of the mascara wand, and a daub of lip-gloss later, she had managed to erase all vestiges of her tears and was ready to face the world. She also sent a quick text to her parents, knowing that there was no way she would be able to make it through a conversation with them. Amy retraced her steps to the nurses' station in order to enquire as to the room number of Detective Jake Peralta; she didn't think she could handle going back to the waiting room to see if any of her friends were still there – the image of the dots on those ceiling tiles would likely be forever imprinted on her brain.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for my partner. His name is Detective Jake Peralta. I believe he-"

"He's in the surgical ICU now. You need to go up to the fifth floor and ask them."

"Thanks," Amy mumbled and then added under her breath, "for nothing."

She elected to take the elevator as her legs already felt as though she had just taken on the StairMaster and shown it who was Queen of the Stairs; she didn't think she would be doing her legs any favours by exerting them more than was strictly necessary at the moment. Thankfully, the nurse at the desk on the fifth floor was able to point her in the right direction with a sympathetic smile.

Amy paused outside the door of Room 514. Inside, she could see Captain Holt bend down to whisper something in Jake's ear before straightening up, squaring his shoulders, and turning to leave the room. She quickly jumped back to get out of the captain's way.

"Oh! Santiago. I didn't see you there."

"I'm sorry, sir. It was my fault."

"How? I was the one walking without looking at what was in front of me."

"Right, sir. Sorry, sir," Amy fumbled. Why did her words always seem to escape her when in the presence of her CO and mentor? She had graduated _summa cum laude_ from Columbia University, for crying out loud.

"I believe everyone has had a chance to see Peralta. We had to remove Boyle after he went into hysterics and started to disturb the other patients on the ward."

Amy let out a nervous chuckle. "Right," she said again. "I guess I'll just go in and see him then."

Captain Holt eyed her carefully. "Santiago, you know he's going to be fine. This is Jake Peralta. There is no way he's going to die when there's a Medal of Valour waiting for him when he wakes up."

Amy nodded silently. She didn't trust her voice or her words at this point.

"And, Amy? It's okay to feel. That's your partner in there."

In a rare moment of affection, generally reserved for the man lying unconscious in Room 514 when he did something well, Holt squeezed her shoulder before stepping aside to allow her to enter the room. Amy took a deep steadying breath in through her nose, blew out through her mouth, and pushed open the door. Once inside, the only sounds were the hushed _shhhhhh_ of the respirator and the steady _beep-beep-beep_ of the heart rate monitor. She tiptoed over to the bed to get a better look at her partner.

It just looked like he was sleeping, albeit with a large tube down his throat and an IV attached to his right hand. Amy noted absently how dark his hair looked in comparison to his pale face; she wondered how she had never noticed until now how curly it was around his collar. She stood still for a few minutes, simply taking him in and breathing a prayer of thanks that he had been spared from death. For now. No, she wasn't going to let her mind go there. He had to pull through. That was non-optional. Without him, who was going to help keep her competitive edge sharp? Make sure that she didn't take herself too seriously? Make sure that she found time to laugh at the silly side of life?

She lowered herself into the chair recently vacated by Holt and reached for Jake's hand. She had never actually held his hand before but it somehow felt…right. Natural. That's what people are supposed to do when their partner is lying unconscious in a hospital bed, right? Hold their hand? She wondered if it was meant to provide comfort for the conscious party or the unconscious party. Probably the conscious, she concluded. If you're in a coma, how are you supposed to know that someone is holding your hand? You probably don't even realize you _have_ hands.

His hand was surprising warm and soft. She didn't know what she expected: perhaps more cold and lifeless. And definitely more calluses and rough patches. She had never seen him break out a bottle of moisturizer at the precinct – Boyle was the one with a complete Bath and Body Works shop in his desk drawer – but it was clear that Jake knew his way around a lotion bottle; there was no way his skin was this naturally soft. She examined his hand and noticed a tiny white scar on his wrist, scarcely a few millimetres in length. It looked like it had been there for quite some time. How had he gotten such a scar? It was then that she realised just how little she actually knew about her partner. He seemed to know so much about her: which evening she devoted to balancing her weekly budget; her complete and utter weakness for watermelon-flavoured Jolly Ranchers; her rather embarrassing penchant to iron her socks and underwear; and how, when she blushed, the heat always started at the tips of her ears and worked its way down to her face.

However, none of these little tidbits about her were told to him directly; he simply observed her. And he never forgot anything, especially those moments she would prefer he forgot like when she was chasing a suspect on foot and accidentally barrelled straight into the path of a little old lady taking her pet Pomeranian for a walk. Amy had apologized profusely to the elderly woman, in between violent sneezes, but Jake still occasionally enjoyed reminding her of the incident.

"This room needs some flowers. And maybe a stuffed bear," Amy spoke aloud for the first time since entering the room. The sound of her voice seemed magnified in the silent and sterile environment. "The biggest and brightest flowers possible and the bear would need a gigantic red bow around its neck. Just for you, Jake."

Then, without warning, the tears started to well up in her eyes and slipped silently down her cheeks. She chose not to fight the emotion and allowed herself to simply _feel_. She had thought she had finished crying in the third floor corridor but, apparently, she had underestimated herself. The tears started silently but soon grew to racking sobs, her whole body shaking with emotions she never even knew she possessed. It wasn't just that it was her partner lying here in this cold hospital bed; it was that it was _Jake_ lying here in this cold hospital bed. Jake who had challenged her to be the best detective she could be by always knowing what buttons to press to spur her on. Jake who had taught her how to catch nuts in her mouth (she still maintained that the key was _volume_). Jake who had figured out why the captain's husband hated cops and planned a romantic birthday dinner for just the two of them. Jake who had told her that he wished something would happen "romantic stylez" between the two of them. Jake who was always completely honest with her, no matter what the cost to his pride.

Amy lost track of the length of time spent sitting in the (surprisingly) comfortable chair and holding on tightly to Jake's hand. Occasionally, she would give his hand a quick squeeze and hold her breath, waiting for even the slightest response from him that would indicate he was waking up. But, every time, she was disappointed. He remained completely still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest in time with the respirator. The tears had stopped a while ago but, every so often, a few would make an unwelcome appearance and silently trickle down her cheeks. A couple of nurses had popped in to check Jake's vitals and make a few notations on his chart. When the first one had inquired as to her relationship with the patient, she had told them honestly that Jake was her partner but neglected to clarify the context, leading them to assume they were involved romantically. Amy hadn't bothered to correct them; if it meant that she was allowed to stay in the room for as long as she wanted, she was more than willing to keep up the ruse. Besides, if Jake had had his way, maybe they _would_ have become more than just work partners.

Soon, her eyelids became heavy and she could feel herself nodding off. She inched the chair as close to the bed as possible and laid her head down on the soft mattress, right beside Jake's shoulder. The bedding smelled faintly of fabric softener and industrial strength disinfectant; she also thought she caught a faint whiff of Jake's cologne but dismissed it as a trick of her mind. She carefully laced her fingers through Jake's and closed her eyes. In a few moments, sleep had claimed her and she was softly snoring.

**November 5, 2011**

**99 Precinct**

"Does anyone ever call you 'Ames'?"

"Not if they want to live to tell the tale."

Detective Jake Peralta grinned. "'Ames' it is, then! Welcome to the 99, Detective Santiago. You'll be glad you came."

Detective Amy Santiago blew out a frustrated breath that briefly lifted her bangs off her forehead. Not even ten minutes since she set foot in her new precinct and she was already thinking that maybe it had been a mistake to request a transfer out of the 116th. She continued to unpack her box of personal items, making sure to carefully arrange her framed photos of her family on the desk, and placing her various stationary items in the proper places. She straightened the computer monitor, pulled the keyboard and mouse down to the end of the desk so that they were parallel to the edge of the table, and sat back to ensure everything was as it should be.

"Geez, OCD much?"

It was Peralta again. Amy had a sinking feeling this detective was going to be a thorn in her side; she only hoped she would have as little to do with him as possible. Besides, so what if she liked things nice and organized? There was nothing wrong with a little order in a workplace that was often loud and chaotic.

She swivelled around in her chair. "Do you have a problem with tidiness, Peralta?"

A snort came from the next desk. "They have to get exterminators in every year to clean out Peralta's locker after the vermin get out of control."

"All right, Diaz," Peralta glared at the dark-haired detective who looked like she could easily kneecap a person and continue walking as though nothing had happened. "No need to start airing other people's dirty laundry, no pun intended, in front of the probie."

_Probie_? Who did he think she was? A new recruit from the Academy?

"Jakey, Rosa's got a point. Your locker is the most disgusting thing I have ever smelled. And I've been to a rave in the sewers," a woman with long blonde hair, wrapped in a giant wolf blanket, leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk.

"Not helping, Gina," Peralta muttered.

Amy opened her mouth to hotly contest his reference to her as a probie but was interrupted by the arrival of the CO. Captain McGinley was a large man who closely resembled a walrus. She scrambled to her feet and held her hand out towards the beefy captain.

"Captain McGinley? I'm Detective Amy Santiago; I've just transferred from the 116th in Queens. It's good to - "

The captain didn't even acknowledge her. "Peralta? Where's my pastrami on rye? I thought you were going to pick it up on your way in to the precinct."

Without batting an eye, Peralta reached under his desk and produced a deli bag that was already stained with grease. Amy's stomach turned slightly at the sight and smell of the bag. "Here you are, sir. Extra mustard, extra pickles, and extra onions – just the way you like it."

Captain McGinley turned away from the group without even a second glance in her direction and ambled back towards his office, opening the bag as he walked. Amy gaped after him, in slight shock that her CO had completely blown her off. So far, it had been less than a brilliant start to her career at the 99. Was she doomed for failure? Was the 99 going to be the Precinct of the Damned for her?

"Don't mind the captain," a large, well-built African-American man told her. "He's not exactly…sociable."

"He actually makes Diaz look friendly."

"Can it, Peralta," Diaz shot back, "before I jam that entire sandwich down your throat."

"Enough," the other man said and both detectives went quiet. "Detective Santiago, I'm Sergeant Jeffords. Welcome to the 99; we're glad you're here. We're_ all _glad you're here," he added with a sharp look at Peralta, who seemed to rethink whatever smart comment he was about to make and closed his mouth.

"Thank you, Sergeant. I'm happy to have the opportunity to grow as a detective and develop my skills," Amy replied. She didn't bother to say that she was also glad to be at the 99; _that_ would have been a complete lie.

"Now, you're going to be partnered with Peralta. He's going to show you the ropes and help you settle into life at the precinct."

Amy bit back her groan. Which cosmic being had she angered to deserve this? The one guy in the precinct who had already set her teeth on edge was going to be her _partner_? Any day that did not end with her wanting to murder this SOB more than 6 times was going to be a win in her book.

"All right!" crowed a short, balding man. "You hit the jackpot, Detective Santiago! I'd give anything to spend all day with Jake, putting bad guys behind bars and then hitting the bar ourselves to celebrate how great we are at putting bad guys behind bars."

"Uh, thanks, Boyle," Peralta said, clearly uncomfortable. "That's not a bit awkward or creepy."

Boyle smiled at Jake in what could only be described as an adoring fashion before returning his attention to the file that lay open on his desk. Amy wasn't sure what Boyle's deal was with Peralta but latent homosexual feelings for the younger man were definitely at the top of the list.

"All right, then," Amy began awkwardly. "Um, are you working on any open cases at the moment?"

"I'm actually just in the middle of this really cool case involving bodies strung together with fishing line. I'll grab the file for you."

Oh, dear God. What was she getting herself in to?

And so began Detective Amy Santiago's stint as Detective Jake Peralta's partner-cum-babysitter. They soon settled into a working relationship that was often described as 'love-hate' by the other detectives in the precinct. Amy had, on many occasions, been forced to eat large helpings of humble pie when it became obvious that Jake was an excellent detective and had skills that were beyond even her. It was just a shame that his personality and behaviour were a few light years behind his talent as a detective. Thankfully, she was able to tune out about 84% of his nonsense and would let him jabber away while she went to her happy place on a beach in the Bahamas.

However, it wasn't long before Amy's natural competitiveness rose to the surface. It wasn't her fault, though; being raised the youngest of eight, with only seven older brothers to serve as her playmates, had meant that she either kept up with the boys or was left behind. Most of the time she had managed to keep up or was, at the very least, not left behind to eat the dust of her brothers' shoes. It was good training for when she entered the Academy; she was one of the few female recruits able to keep up with the men and didn't become easily intimidated by their (seemingly) superior strength and speed.

It had started during the daily meeting in the briefing room. Peralta had, once again, been shooting his mouth off about how he was the best detective at the 99.

"Hey, Peralta? Wanna make a bet?"

This caught his attention. "A bet?" he repeated. "What kind of bet?"

Amy smiled smugly. "I bet you I can get more arrests then you in the next 12 months." She had learned a lot from Jake over the last few months, not that she would ever tell _him_ that, and was confident that she could take him on and beat him.

Jake smiled back, an equally smug smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. "You think you can get more arrests than me? Dream on, Santiago."

"Not…_scared_, are you, Peralta? That you might be beaten by a girl?"

"No way," scoffed Peralta. "First off, you're barely a girl. And, secondly, there is no way you will be able to even match my arrests, let alone beat me."

"Is that a yes?"

"Uh, yeah. I'd be stupid to pass this up."

"What are the stakes?" Amy shot at him. "And don't say money, because I know you're in debt."

"If you knew anything about me, you'd say 'crushing debt'," Jake retorted. "I'll bet whatever, because I'm not losing."

Amy paused to think for a moment but was beaten to the punch by Rosa. "What about your car?"

Charles immediately jumped into the conversation with loud protestations regarding the car's status as a 'date-magnet', but Amy was already thinking about how this could be a perfect opportunity to learn how to drive a stick-shift. None of her brothers had allowed her to use their cars to learn when she was growing up and she had always slightly resented the fact that they possessed a skill that she did not.

I'm gonna win, so sure: let's bet the car," Jake replied confidently.

Everything in her wanted to smack that smug, arrogant smile off of his face but she balled her hands into fists and counted down from ten. _Think of the bet_, she told herself.

"What's the worst thing in the world for you?" Gina asked Amy.

Amy shuddered. "Being one of those girls in Jake's Mustang."

"Then it's settled," Jeffords interjected. "If Peralta loses, Santiago gets his car. If Santiago loses, she goes on a date in said car."

They shook on it, Amy gripping his hand a little bit harder than was strictly necessary so as to communicate that she was 'in it to win it' – as per the instructions from the seminar she had attended the previous winter.

The next 12 months were the best 12 months of Amy's entire career. Driven by her desire to prove Peralta wrong once and for all, she threw everything she had into getting as many collars as she could. Annoyingly, Peralta never seemed far behind her and, even worse, at times he was slightly ahead of her. However, Amy chose to see this as an opportunity to never stop improving her detective skills; the constant challenge meant there were constant rewards, with the biggest reward always within her sights: winning the bet and taking Peralta's car.

Even the arrival of the 99's new CO, Captain Holt, did little to distract her from winning the bet and taking possession of that rust bucket Peralta referred to as his 'little lady'. In fact, if anything, Captain Holt's presence spurred Amy on even more as she did everything in her power to get the captain to notice her. Unfortunately, despite Amy's decision to make the captain her mentor as she worked to gain the necessary experience in order to run her own precinct one day, the captain seemed much more interested in Peralta and forcing him to sort himself out. To be fair, Peralta did need the most work out of all of the 99 detectives (Scully and Hitchcock excluded but they were beyond hope) but, still, Amy wished that Holt would pay just a bit more attention to her and her needs.

Nevertheless, she plowed on, making collar after collar and gleefully updating the tally on the whiteboard with each new arrest. She had no doubt that she would ultimately triumph and serve Peralta that piece of humble pie he so richly deserved. Wait. No. Scratch that. He would need to eat the _entire_ pie. It wasn't that she was arrogant; it was just that she was sure fate or karma or whatever you want to call it owed her for the time spent as Peralta's partner. She had lost count of the number of times he had behaved immaturely or unprofessionally in the field; there were only so many apologies Amy could issue before she began to think about printing cards to hand out to anyone she and Peralta encountered at crime scenes.

The day she lost the bet was the most humiliating day of Amy's time at the 99, including the day she was forced to come to work in the same clothes after forgetting to pack a bag when spending the night at her boyfriend's apartment; she didn't actually know which had bothered her most: that she had been forced to recycle her outfit or that she had been so disorganized as to forget an overnight bag. Peralta had immediately noticed her attire when he arrived at work, a mere 18 minutes late that morning, and wouldn't let up until she admitted that she was in a relationship with a nurse she had met online. "Santiago banged a murse last night!" he had announced to the bullpen while Amy had buried her head in her hands and prayed for some sort of natural disaster to take care of Peralta once and for all.

But it wasn't just the fact that she had lost the bet. It was also the fact that he had been so certain that he would win that he had made sure to bring in confetti and music and had written "PERALTA WINS" in large capital letters on one of the precinct whiteboards. Amy was helpless to do anything but look around at the scene unfolding in front of her, horror etched onto her face.

Jake dropped to one knee in front of her and produced a ring box. "Amy Santiago, you have made me the happiest man on Earth. Will you go on the worst date ever with me? You have to say yes!"

This was actually her worst nightmare. She had lost. And, not only had she lost, she was now forced to go on a date with Peralta in the car that should have been hers.

What else could she do? A bet was a bet. "…Yes," she accepted, grudgingly.

Jake rose from his position on the floor. "She said yes!" he shouted triumphantly, throwing the ring box at her and sauntering back to his desk. "She said yes!"

**Present Day**

"Santiago? Are you still here?"

Amy sat up, startled. She looked up with bleary eyes into the bemused faces of Captain Holt and Sergeant Jeffords. Her neck was sore from sleeping at a right angle for so long and her hand hurt from holding onto Jake's hand so tightly.

"Um, good morning, Captain. Sergeant. I, uh, fell asleep."

"We can see that, Detective." The captain's tone was decidedly perplexed. "Why didn't you go home last night?"

"Uh, because…because…" Amy stammered. Somehow, she didn't think it was the time or place to admit that she had been too scared to leave him, just in case he was dead when she returned the next morning.

Terry stepped in to rescue her. "It's okay, Santiago. Why don't you go home and clean up? The captain and I will stay with Peralta."

Amy looked up into the sergeant's eyes; his expression told her that he understood much more than Holt did as to why she chose to sleep at the hospital.

"Thank you, Sergeant. I would appreciate that." Amy excused herself and hurried out of the room. The faster she got home, the faster she could return. And this time, she would make sure she carried her badge. Just in case.

The next 4 days fell into a bit of a rhythm for Amy. She would spend the nights at the hospital, wake up early, and head home to get ready for work. She knew the other members of the squad were visiting Jake as well so she would occasionally visit with them to ensure they didn't suspect that she was actually sleeping at the hospital. She was even forced one night to double-back to the hospital after heading out to the bar with Gina and Rosa; she had faked a call from her parents and claimed they needed her to come to their house to help them figure out how to program the satellite dish so they could watch their telenovelas.

She had a feeling the nurses knew something was a bit fishy (who leaves with a group of people and then returns 10 minutes later with a book, pajamas, and fuzzy slippers?) but, to their credit, they never once said a word. Instead, they had provided her with a spare blanket and pillow so that she could be a bit more comfortable. She had even taken to curling up in the hospital bed next to Jake at night. She told herself that it was because there were only so many nights that she could sleep at a right angle but, the truth was, she was desperate to be near him and hear the soothing _thud-thud_ of his heartbeat. It was a concrete reminder that he was still alive and that there was still hope he would wake up. The respirator had been removed when it became evident that Jake was able to breathe on his own. Gina had provided shampoo and other necessities from Jake's apartment so that he even smelled the same, which comforted Amy more than she would ever admit.

It was during the quietness of the night that her mind would wander. All too frequently, it would journey back to the night of their 'date'. In hindsight, it was probably one of the better dates she had been on (nothing could beat the terrible date with the dentist) and, by far, it was the best time she and Jake had ever spent together. She could still hear him tell her: "no matter what happens, you're not allowed to fall in love with me." At the time, she had blithely retorted: "won't be a problem" – and had truly believed it – but, it was now becoming clear that the problem was indeed how to _avoid_ falling in love with her partner, the man who could make her angrier than any other man she had ever met in her life and then, at the drop of a hat, make her laugh at something outrageous.

She had been blissfully unaware that Jake had struggled with his feelings towards her after that night. She had been so consumed with being the best detective she could be, especially after losing the bet, that she hadn't even noticed the subtle changes in her partner's behaviour and personality when he was around her. Looking back, the signs were all there: the captain had thanked her the following morning for turning down the relief team which she had gone along with rather than admit she had no idea what he was talking about; Jake had become obsessed with beating the precinct record for the number of collars in a month and had then re-opened an impossible cold case from nearly 8 years ago in an effort to keep his mind busy; and, sometimes, she would catch the sergeant looking at her and Jake with an almost knowing look on his face. How had she missed such obvious signs? Some detective she was. It was because when Teddy had come back on the scene after the tactical village exercise, all thoughts of Jake had completely vanished as her focus was on renewing her relationship with Teddy.

She hadn't thought so at the time but Jake's confession that he had feelings for her, which went beyond those between work partners, was one of the most romantic things anyone had ever said to her. Not because of the words themselves but because of who was saying the words: a man who became visibly uncomfortable where grown-up emotions were concerned but still went ahead and expressed them anyway. He had taken a chance, gone out on a limb, and then disappeared for six months, leaving her to wonder if she would ever see him again. Now, she would give just about anything to have given him the response that he so clearly wanted to hear. But had she been ready when he seemed to be ready? If she was honest with herself, she knew that she wasn't. She had needed to see where her relationship with Teddy was going to lead: nowhere, as it turned out. She was also plagued with fears that her growing feelings for Jake were a direct result of him getting shot and that, when he recovered (she refused to use the conditional '_if'_ – even in her thoughts), she would lose interest in him and they would go back to being just partners. However, in her most vulnerable moments, when she would cry silent tears on Jake's shoulder and entreat the heavens to allow him to wake up, she could see that Jake's shooting was simply a catalyst for events that had building slowly and quietly in the background over the last several months.

The ever-practical side of her personality, which was always operating in the background, had already started thinking of NYPD policies and what changes would have to be made if they were to pursue a serious relationship. She was aware that it was against NYPD regulations to allow members of the same precinct to be in a romantic relationship so, obviously, one of them would have to request a transfer. But, was that too premature? What if they went on a few dates, realized they were better off as friends, but one of them was already being moved to a new precinct? She wished she could talk about this with someone but the only person she wanted to talk to was currently sporting 2 days' worth of stubble growth and would need to be washed and shaved by the nurse in the morning (she didn't like it when his stubble scratched her face; it was hard to explain the rash to her squad).

It was on day 7 that Gina finally figured out where Amy was spending her nights. Amy had woken up late and wasn't able to slip out of the hospital by her usual 6.30 AM. She knew that Gina often popped in to see Jake on her way to the precinct and had always been able to make it out unnoticed. However, she had slept so poorly, having been plagued by dreams of Jake dying interspersed with dreams of Jake waking up and rejecting her like she had rejected him (she honestly didn't know which dream was worse).

"Amy? What are you doing here?"

Amy froze in the middle of trying to stuff her pajamas back into her overnight bag, which now lived in the trunk of her car. She turned around slowly to find Gina looking at her with a slightly shocked, slightly amused, expression on her face.

"I, uh-"

"Have you been _sleeping_ here?"

Amy sighed. There was no point trying to hide it from Gina. She could be relentless in her pursuit of the truth, especially when the truth came in the form of juicy office gossip. "Yes," she admitted. "I've been sleeping here."

"Why?"

Amy had no answer. She simply looked at Gina and tried to say it all without saying anything at all. Understanding was not long in coming and, to her credit, all Gina did was nod and say, "Okay. Gotcha."

"You're not going to say anything, are you? I'm serious, Gina. No can know about this. Especially not Captain Holt."

"It's okay, Boo. I won't say anything. Your secret's safe with me."

Amy could have kissed her but realized that would probably undo all of the progress she and Gina had just made in the last 45 seconds. "Thanks," she said instead. "I need to get going if I'm going to make it to work on time."

"See you there," Gina replied. "I'll get the nurses to give him a shave; we wouldn't want you coming into work with stubble rash."

Amy could feel the tips of her ears heating up and rushed out of the room before Gina could notice.

That day, Amy could feel Gina's eyes on her; every time Amy glanced at the other woman, a knowing smile danced on her lips and in her eyes. But, true to her word, Gina kept her secret and simply winked when Amy clocked out at 5.00 on the nose.

That night, Amy decided to start reading to Jake. She had read on the Internet that reading to coma patients was supposed to be beneficial. She wasn't entirely convinced about the research but, at the very least, reading aloud would help pass the time. She had chosen one of her favourite books from childhood which she knew, were Jake conscious, he would have hated: _Anne of Green Gables_. There was just something about the story that drew Amy in every time regardless of the fact that she had read it close to a couple dozen times.

Amy made it through the first five chapters of the story before she could feel her eyelids growing heavy. Abandoning the book, she brushed her teeth, took out her contacts, and slipped into her pajamas. She padded over to the bed and climbed in, covering them both with the extra blanket. It wasn't long before she was snoring softly, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. Once again, Jake was in her dreams only, this time, for the first time, it was playing out in a happily-ever-after kind of way.

"Ames? Ames?"

She shook her head. Who was trying to wake her up and why was their voice so familiar? Jake was generally the only one she consented to call her 'Ames'.

"Ames?"

This time, she came fully awake and sat up. Jake was gazing up at her, pale and haggard, but alive and conscious.

"Jake?" It was all she could get out before the tears welled up in her eyes and she had to stop talking before her voice betrayed her emotions.

"Were you expecting someone else?" The old glint, though not as sharp, had appeared in his eye. "And why are we in bed together? Amy Santiago, did you take advantage of me in my weakened and vulnerable state?" He gasped. "Are you a necrophile?"

She blushed from the tips of her ears to the roots of her hair and clambered out of bed, nearly knocking over the bedside table in her haste. She resumed her usual position in the armchair, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.

"No, I didn't and no, I'm not. I was, uh, cold and it was more comfortable than sleeping in a chair. But not by much: your shoulder is pretty much pure bone; it's about as comfortable as sleeping on a bag of rocks."

"You sure it wasn't just my rippling muscles?"

She snorted. This was classic Jake: Confidence with a touch of arrogance. Her Jake. She shook her head. No, he wasn't 'hers' yet. An important conversation needed to be had first before she could put any claim on him.

"How long have I been out of it?" Jake asked, pulling her back to the present. "What day is it today?"

"It's the 25th," she told him, watching his face as he worked out just how long he had been in the coma.

"8 days. Wow. And how many nights have you spent here in my hospital room?"

Amy studied his face. There was no sign that he was mocking her or trying to embarrass her; it seemed that he genuinely wanted to know the answer. So what did she tell him? The truth? A lie? Brush it under the carpet by changing the topic? She decided to go for Option A. After all, he had gone out on a limb for her. It was time for her to reciprocate.

"7 nights," she responded quietly, keeping her eyes focused on his face to see how he would take the news.

"Ooooo-kay," he said slowly, clearly trying to process this information and quickly recognizing its significance.

She decided it was time for her to use actions rather than words; words, in the past, had been used, by both of them, for mocking and deriding. In the future, words would be used for comforting and encouraging but, for now, the two of them needed a break from words. She picked up his hand and laced her fingers through his, squeezing gently. His brows immediately knit in confusion but she kept her eyes on his face, unwavering and unblinking. Understanding soon dawned on his face.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice and his face hopeful.

"Yeah," she replied softly, a smile of promise dancing on her lips.

**Epilogue**

**9 months later**

"Jake? What's this?"

"What's 'what'?" Jake came up behind her and peered into the fridge.

Amy straightened up, an unmarked package of cheese in her hand. "This. What is it and where did you get it?"

Jake's face lit up. "Oh, that's my special cheese!"

"'Special cheese'?" Amy wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What makes it special?"

"Sometimes the deli gets shipments where some labels have come off so they sell it for really cheap. I think that cost me a buck or something," Jake explained, clearly proud of himself for finding ways to save money and still feed himself. "The boys know I'm on a tight budget so I always get first dibs."

"All right, well, I'm afraid 'the boys' are going to need to find a new sucker to sell their special cheese to," Amy said, walking over to the garbage and preparing to throw away the vile package.

"Wait! What are you doing?" Jake asked, concern evident in his eyes. "That's good cheese!"

Amy turned to look at him. "Jake, I'm not going to play nurse for you after you contract food poisoning from some dodgy cheese sold to you by the boys down at the deli."

Jake's eyes gleamed. "You'd look really hot in a nurse's outfit, though. I'm sure we could find a naughty nurse costume for you. The hat…the skirt…the stethoscope…the blood pressure thingy…" His voice trailed off as he began to imagine the sight of Amy in a naughty nurse costume.

Amy took advantage of this momentary distraction and pushed the pedal down to lift the lid of the bin. However, before she had a chance to drop the cheese into the bin, she found herself wrapped in a bear hug from behind and lifted off of her feet.

"Jake! What are you doing? Let me go!" Amy cried, struggling to break free from his grasp. Unfortunately, he had her arms pinned to her sides so tightly it was like she was in a straitjacket.

"Not until you hand over the cheese," Jake grunted, walking backwards out of the galley kitchen.

"It's for your own good!" Amy protested, still trying in vain to free herself.

"And so is this." Jake deposited her rather ungracefully on the couch and flopped down on top of her, effectively immobilizing her underneath him.

"Oof!" Amy's breath left her completely. But, before she was able to get it back, Jake's fingers had found the perpetually ticklish spot just below her ribs and were exploiting the fact that she was completely helpless.

"Okay, okay! I give! Uncle! _Uncle_!" Amy shrieked, gasping for breath in between giggles.

"Not until you hand over the cheese," Jake replied, his fingers poised to recommence the tickling.

"Fine," Amy grumbled, managing to pull the cheese out from where it had been squashed between her body and the couch.

"Thank you, darling," Jake said, a note of triumph in his voice. He dropped a kiss on Amy's nose then rose. "What do you say to grilled cheese sandwiches for supper?"

Later that night, the two of them were curled up on the couch watching _Saturday Night Live_; Amy's head was nestled on Jake's lap while he absent-mindedly ran his fingers through her silky hair. A large bowl of popcorn and two glasses of red wine sat waiting on the small end table on the other side of Jake.

"Oh, hey, did I tell you that Gina and Rosa stole Boyle's mung beans yesterday? He threatened to start making yogurt in his desk again if they weren't returned so the sergeant ordered them to give the beans back or work every weekend for a month. And they would have to eat Charles' desk yogurt."

"Ew," Amy replied. "Charles is growing mung beans again?"

"Yeah. He claims they're the source of his virility or whatever. All I know is that they make the bullpen smell like an open sewer," Jake shuddered. "Oh, and everyone says 'hi' and 'can you come for a drink next week after your shift'?"

She smiled. "Tell them I'll be there on Tuesday."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they re-focused their attention on the show.

"The show's really lost its edge," Jake complained after a few minutes. "I remember five years ago when the sketches were actually funny. Now, it's just…crap."

"You're just saying that because they got rid of the 'Blizzard Man' sketch," Amy said soothingly. "Ooh! Taylor Swift just came on."

As always, Amy fell asleep just after the Weekend Update sketch and was woken up by Jake nudging her gently. "Ames? Sweetheart, it's time for bed."

"Is the show over?" she mumbled, struggling to sit up straight.

"Yeah, it is," Jake laughed quietly.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Besides some terrible sketches and Taylor Swift in a cheerleader's outfit? Nah. C'mon, beautiful. I'll tuck you in."

She automatically raised her hands so that he could pull her up. With a chuckle, he tugged her up onto her feet and into his arms, which automatically wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against his body. She snuggled into his warm embrace and breathed in the smell that was uniquely him: Hugo Boss cologne combined with Ivory soap combined with Downy fabric softener. He pressed a feather-light kiss to her brow, and then to her cheek, before capturing her lips with his own. It was not a frantic, fiery kiss with clashing tongues and teeth but, rather, one that was slow and tender, making her feel treasured and desired more than any passionate kiss ever could.

She broke the kiss and laid her cheek on his chest; he rested his chin on her head and gave her a tight squeeze. Without words, he reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers before leading her down the short corridor to their bedroom. Out of habit, his thumb automatically began to rub the band of the ring resting on the third finger of her left hand, almost to reassure himself that it was indeed still there and that she had actually agreed to be his wife. She smiled and squeezed his hand to silently reassure him that he had nothing to fear; he dropped a kiss on the top of her head in response.

"So, what are your plans for tomorrow?"

"I have a dress fitting at 10.30 and then a meeting with the florist at noon. Gina and Rosa are meeting me for a late lunch before we go bridesmaids' dress shopping. You?"

"_Die Hard_ marathon with Charles and the sarge."

"Promise me you won't be quoting it for the next week."

"I will make no such promise. You know it is physically impossible for me not to use a great Bruce'ism if the situation calls for it."

"Aw, Jake…"

"This is just who I am, baby; you're going to have to love me as I am."

"Oh, the things we do for love," Amy soliloquized dramatically, half in jest, half in truth.

"Then it's a good thing you love me more than life itself," Jake waggled his eyebrows at her before swooping in to steal another kiss.

"Always, my love," Amy smiled against his lips. "Always."


End file.
